


Happiest Pretenders

by scrapbullet



Series: Born To [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asshole Thranduil, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gen, Implied Non-Consensual Drug-Use, Imprisonment, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That." Sigrid says with a moue of displeasure, pointing at the crib that she herself had once inhabited, clean of dust and debris from storage. (Not that she deigned to sleep in it much, preferring the warmth of Bard's arms to the crib of solid oak.) "That." She says again, firmer this time, and when she looks up at Bard with that expression of imperiousness the ache in his chest intensifies; an ache of love that only a father can feel when they look upon their daughter.</p><p>The skin around his mouth stretches and contorts against his will. "That, my precious Sigrid, is for your baby brother or sister. When he, or she, decides to join us, that is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiest Pretenders

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Happiest Pretenders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857100) by [suirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suirin/pseuds/suirin)



Sigrid is not a typical child. Indeed, at three years of age she is as quiet and serious as can be, laughing only when her father holds her tight and tickles the soles of her feet, her smile fleeting yet sweet. She walks now, has for a good year or so, tiny hand clasped in Bards' as she totters around the room, uninterested in the gifts that her other father - her Adar, who is quick to embrace her even now that she grows in mortal years - brings her, lacking the innate clumsiness that most human babes her age possess. 

"That." Sigrid says with a moue of displeasure, pointing at the crib that she herself had once inhabited, clean of dust and debris from storage. (Not that she deigned to sleep in it much, preferring the warmth of Bard's arms to the crib of solid oak.) "That." She says again, firmer this time, and when she looks up at Bard with that expression of imperiousness the ache in his chest intensifies; an ache of love that only a father can feel when they look upon their daughter.

The skin around his mouth stretches and contorts against his will. "That, my precious Sigrid, is for your baby brother or sister. When he, or she, decides to join us, that is."

( _Grim-faced, they call him; the Master and the men of Laketown. So, too, does Thranduil in a fit of pique, which these days is quite often given that his little scheme of breeding Bard like a mare has fallen short. The child Bard bore him is not Elven, nor even Peredhel; Sigrid is human, through and through, from her fingers to her toes, and Bard loves her all the more for her genetic impertinence._

_Thranduil, of course, had been, and is, most displeased._

_And yet... the love he shows Sigrid is plain, if now a touch more subdued than when she was born._ )

Slipping her hand from his, Sigrid succumbs to her curiosity and traces the thick branch of a tree carved deep into the oak. Her fingers leave behind a sticky residue - no doubt one of the maids had slipped her some sweetmeats when Bard wasn't looking. 

"Why?" She asks, and the smile-come-grimace melts from Bard's face into one frightfully dour. Sigrid, of course, only cocks her head with interest, a motion inherited solely from her Adar.

Why, indeed? As if one failure - but not to Bard, never, his Sigrid is a wonder - wasn't enough, now there is another growing in his belly. Only faintly rounded it pushes against the silken cloth of his shirt, tailored to fit, a reminder that Thranduil's attentions have yet to waver. 

( _"My Bearer," Thranduil names him, eyes filled with salacious intent. His touch ignites, and Bard, red-cheeked and ashamed, tells himself that it is because the Elven King has had many, many centuries of practice. It is nothing at all to bring a man such as Bard the Bargeman to his knees, after all, though despite his internal protestations he feels his own weakness keenly._

 _Is it rape if, by the end, he begs for it? Is it rape if, in the middle of drug-induced heat, it is all he could possibly desire?_ )

Sigrid has grown bored during his contemplation. She tugs at his leg, impatient, easily forgetting the topic of conversation, and before he can blink she presses a book into his hands, her sweet face beaming with eagerness. Palming the aged leather cover Bard sighs, and draws her close. His Sigrid does so love her stories. 

And, for a time, Bard allows himself to forget, his daughter safely ensconced in his arms.

He will take these blessed moments as they are, for such things cannot last for long in Hell.


End file.
